


Throne

by butterycornbread



Category: Dangan Ronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc
Genre: Blow Jobs, Boot Worship, Deepthroating, Established Relationship, Light Dom/sub, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:28:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25692829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butterycornbread/pseuds/butterycornbread
Summary: Byakuya puts Makoto in his place: beneath him.
Relationships: Naegi Makoto/Togami Byakuya
Comments: 10
Kudos: 225





	Throne

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wecouldbethestars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wecouldbethestars/gifts).



> small early present for my bastard uwu

When they first started doing these things, Makoto would be so sore afterward he once wondered aloud if it was worth it. Now, he’s well-trained and free of doubt. He doesn’t mind the bruises that often bloom over his pale skin. In fact, the dull aches in his legs and back remind him of his place as he kneels before his lover, his dominant, his king.

Byakuya leans an elbow on one of the finely carved arms of his throne; his head rests lightly on his hand as he observes Makoto. It’s difficult to say how long they’ve been like this. Byakuya is fully clothed, dapper and regal in his typical tailored vestments. Makoto is naked and faintly shivering, not from the room temperature but from the cold blue of Byakuya’s gaze as it takes in every detail of his genuflecting body.

Makoto starts when Byakuya moves, but it’s only to take off his glasses and deftly fold them. His hand falls across his lap; the lenses stare back eyelessly at Makoto. He’s mere inches from Byakuya’s shoe. How Byakuya manages to be so effortlessly masculine even with the dainty looseness of his wrists and the fine angles of his face and those long legs crossed . . . Makoto can’t fathom it, but he is not here to understand his god. Only to worship.

Byakuya tips up his chin. It’s a movement so small as to go unnoticed, but Makoto is hyper-aware of all feedback from his master. He crawls forward on hand and knee, keeping his head ducked low, until he reaches Byakuya. He can smell the leather of Byakuya’s shoe, but he knows better than to assume after his punishment last time. He looks shyly upward, and he waits.

Byakuya watches this, face unreadable as always, then gives the smallest nod of permission.

Makoto immediately begins laving his tongue over Byakuya’s shoe, shining expensive leather with his saliva and sucking clean any invisible dust that may have collected. He stops just short of the sole; Byakuya has impressed upon him that avoiding the bacteria there is a good idea. A sick submissive, after all, is of no use to him. Every other available inch is washed, though, licked and kissed and saturated until the shoe glistens nearly black. The taste is bitter, but it’s just more of the pain in his knees. A reminder of his lowly station.

Eventually, Byakuya gives a tiny circular gesture with the hand holding his glasses. Makoto drops to the floor, abasing himself fully, and sets to work on the other shoe. He is practically shuddering with gratitude, as he should be. Byakuya’s approval is a hard-won drug, but the high is well worth chasing.

When both shoes are perfectly clean, Makoto moves back a bit, signalling that he believes his work to be good enough. It’s harrowing: his heart races in his chest as he kneels there on the floor, watching Byakuya watch him with that appraising brow over his eyes. The seconds drag, but Makoto has learned to keep himself from begging. Discipline is of utmost importance. Makoto is a good boy.

Byakuya tortures him for several more seconds, then without warning uncrosses his legs.

Even after all this time, Makoto’s heart almost skips a beat. It’s the highest compliment to see the lust Makoto stirred pressing so insistently against the silken confines of Byakuya’s trousers. His approach is painfully slow, just to be safe—he has been spanked in the past for being over-eager—so when he finally smells musk his mouth is already watering. He nuzzles into the soft material, breath catching at the heat of him, the firmness of the erection brushing his cheek. Byakuya has kindly neglected to wear his belt; Makoto lips at his fly until at last he gets the zip between his teeth and tugs it down.

Byakuya arches one thin eyebrow. He’s pleased.

Makoto hasn’t yet acquired the skill needed to do this fully handless, but he really doesn’t want to accidentally nip Byakuya again. (He couldn’t sit down the next day, last time that happened.) He gingerly lowers Byakuya’s boxer briefs until the hard-on leaps out into his waiting palm. He doesn’t dare stroke it with a dry hand, not that he wants to waste any more time with an empty mouth anyway. He circles the crown with the tip of his tongue, just long enough that he feels Byakuya’s thighs tense, and then he fits his lips around the head. The taste here is a little bitter as well, but it’s also _Byakuya_ even more intimately than the scent of him on his pillow or the smooth timbre of his voice in Makoto’s ear. He has to stifle noises of pleasure as he bobs his head, ignoring as always the growing impatience between his legs. The rules of this are many but simple. Byakuya comes first, in every sense of the word.

After a few tries Makoto pushes his way down to the hilt, and Byakuya’s free hand falls to grasp a fistful of his hair, holding him in place. Makoto stifles the instinct to fight for air and instead pushes his tongue out to clumsily lick at Byakuya’s balls. Tears gather in his eyes as his throat and lungs burn, but just when he thinks he might have to tap out Byakuya releases him. He gasps, a few tears falling free and leaving dark spots on the crimson cushion of the throne. Byakuya’s hand cups his chin, tilting his face up so Makoto can better see the arousal dilating his pupils. 

Makoto doesn’t truly have his breath back, but it doesn’t matter. He hollows his cheeks and sucks with new vigor, jerking the bottom half of the shaft now that it’s slick with drool and precum. He was surprised, foolishly, when he first saw the length of him—and worried that he wouldn’t be able to accommodate it. But now he knows better. Average though he might believe himself, there is no part of Makoto that cannot bend, cannot spread, cannot acclimate to whatever stands against it. If Byakuya asks it of him he will at least try, and that’s almost always good enough.

Precum is getting thick on his tongue; Byakuya’s breaths, though he works to keep them composed, are heaving from his chest. Makoto focuses on the head, the most sensitive part of him, and worships it so completely he almost doesn’t notice when Byakuya leans his other head back against the throne. A moan swells from his chest, deep and breathless, the only sound Byakuya ever makes when they play these roles. Makoto looks up through teary eyelashes to see the glory of Byakuya Togami, the graceful swoop of his throat, the arch of his back, the all-over rapture as he revels in his exquisitely brief loss of control. Makoto swallows all that’s given to him and gladly warms Byakuya’s cock even as it softens.

Then Byakuya is relaxing back into his throne, ecstasy fading to bliss. His lips curve slightly upward, for once closer to smile than smirk, and he slides his glasses onto Makoto’s face. The lenses blur his vision, but he doesn’t protest; they are at once a gift and a mark of ownership, and besides, Byakuya will take care of him even if they are both blind.

To that end, Byakuya tenderly urges Makoto upward. His knees wail at the movement and Makoto actually stumbles, but Byakuya catches him. He tucks himself away and zips his trousers, making his lap free real estate for Makoto to climb onto. Byakuya effortlessly manipulates his body until Makoto is lying across him on his back, cradled between the polished wooden arms of the throne. Byakuya’s slender fingers tease their way down his shaft, ready to begin a whole new round of torture . . .

 _“Byakuya._ Byakuya. Wake up.”

His eyes fly wide open, disorientation whirling through his mind. It takes several seconds for him to remember: the school, the dorm, the boy in his bed. Right. But it’s not morning; Byakuya can barely see Makoto through the shadow, regardless of the glasses sitting on his nightstand. Why is Makoto waking him up, twisted round to look at him while they spoon?

“You must’ve been having a dream,” Makoto whispers. “You were sort of making noises, and moving. And then you, um . . .”

Byakuya can practically feel the heat of Makoto’s blush. Then he realizes he feels a different heat beneath the blanket—a sticky warmth between himself and the backs of Makoto’s thighs. Of course, the one time they both sleep naked. Byakuya is relieved the pleasure of the dream is still fogging his brain. The embarrassment would piss him off, otherwise.

“It’s nothing that hasn’t been on you before,” Byakuya says. He really doesn’t feel like getting up to clean at this ungodly hour. They can sneak off to the laundry room with the sheets while everyone else is having breakfast. “Go back to sleep.”

Makoto pauses, then snuggles into Byakuya once more. “Will you wash it off for me when we shower?”

Byakuya pictures Makoto licking his shoes so obediently. He slings an arm around Makoto’s waist to make the fluffy boy sigh, content. “I suppose I could return the favor.”

Makoto makes a soft little _hm?_ sound, perplexed, but Byakuya’s silence has sleep taking him in only a few moments. Byakuya closes his eyes, too, and reasons that there’s little point in getting clean sheets before morning anyway.

He’s always had a problem with recurring dreams.


End file.
